Reminders of The Desolate Valleys

Gripped in the icy hold of winter. The reminder of our pitiful weakness is evident in the wind blowing freezing wet possible death at us. Burrow in and hide. The storm will pass. The cycle of power exerts its control. Presenting itself even in our hovels stacked high above the concrete or in our shacks spread like a stain across the once verdant vistas. It is a threat. Not subtle at all. A display of ferocious power. No longer a victim. Now a victor. A declaration saying self important nothings hide in holes. Scared creatures. The wilderness of winter accepts no excuses.

Waiting For A Without Within

Lying in waking waiting yearning for untimely demises. Filled with a desire for manmade environments devoid of man. The empty city streets. The playground amidst the once serious sea of moneyed falsehood. Dreams for non-existent days. When lack of foresight becomes hindsight. The corpse has no critique of the endless nature of time. Just a moment is given and then merged uneventfully into the dust. The ruins have to get their start somewhere. The slow march to decay as gravity exerts it unflinching hold. Forever and eternally down towards the dirt.

Like Distance... Like Dreams

Lasting till now. Thinking the whole time that longevity mattered. Recycled clichés of thoughtless thinkers long since thought to be cliché. Just waking up in nightmare all of the time. No shock reaction. Been there done that and then mocked that reaction. Life that brutal interplay. The lasting now till longevity. Or at least holding out till a really long time from now. Stereotypes became a Braille. The ability to see when you weren’t there. Easy as pie. The timelines are to similar. Evidence proves the theories correct. So advanced yet unable to realize the concept of trajectory. Myths tell us that Icarus had a hot date.